She could feel their eyes on her. Some glimmered with desperate reverence, whispering her name like a prayer.
Others held caution, even suspicion — staring not at her, but at the cascade of white hair that flowed down to her ankles. The strands shifted faintly even when she stood still, alive with restless tension.
Beside her, Lysandra stood calm, her presence sharp yet steady, a pillar of assurance. Behind them, Count Varrow and his thin family lingered, trying to preserve dignity despite the weight of hunger etched into their faces.
His son clutched his sleeve nervously. His daughter — nearing seventeen — held herself upright, her lips pressed tight, eyes darting toward Elara with mingled awe and fear.
Elara drew breath, preparing to speak. Her bandaged hand lifted slowly, trembling but resolute.
And then—
Her hair moved.
Not a gentle sway, not the ordinary restless shifting it sometimes showed when she was nervous. No — it writhed.
The strands lifted as though caught in some invisible current, whipping and curling, tightening like serpents scenting prey. A whispering hiss seemed to pass through the air, though no sound truly came.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"The hair!" someone cried, voice cracking.
Children whimpered. Mothers pulled them back. Even the count's daughter flinched, her fingers tightening around her thin skirts.
Elara's heart thudded against her ribs. She had not willed this. It was the hunger again — that strange, gnawing pull that lived inside the strands of her hair, as if it carried its own will.
"Stay," she whispered under her breath, but the command went unheeded. The hair twisted forward, then lashed.
Like a striking beast, her hair darted into the crowd. Screams erupted as the pale strands snaked through bodies, coiling with terrifying speed. Dust rose as people stumbled back, scattering.
When the hair retracted, it dragged someone with it.
A boy.
Thin as a reed, ragged clothes hanging off his bones, no older than twelve. His limbs flailed, his bare feet scraping against the stone.
The hair wound around his waist and arms, hoisting him upward, before dropping him with a thud onto the palace steps at Elara's feet.
The crowd gasped. Silence fell heavy, broken only by the boy's ragged breathing.
He lay trembling, dirt smeared across his face, but his eyes — wide, sharp, too old for his years — darted about with a feral intensity.
His ribs showed clearly through his torn shirt, each breath rattling as if it pained him.
The people's whispers broke out.
"A thief! A spy! Her hair has chosen—"
Many shrank back in fear, clutching each other.
The boy looked up at Elara. For a heartbeat, his gaze flickered with sheer terror, certain of death. Then, defiance sparked. He bared his teeth, his thin chest heaving.
No one moved.
Even the count's family froze. His daughter's hand clutched his arm, her face pale as she stared at the boy. The count's son, nearly the same age as the ragged child, shrank back half a step, confusion clouding his young eyes.
The boy's voice cracked the silence.
"I—" He swallowed, coughed, then shouted louder. "I'm with the bandits!"
Gasps erupted. Some people cried out in fear, others in anger. Stones were picked up, ready to throw, but hesitation stilled their hands.
The boy's thin frame shook, but he forced himself onto his knees.
"We steal from you!" he shouted hoarsely. "We rob the carts. We take the grain. We're the ones you curse!"
"Monster!" someone spat from the crowd.
The boy flinched, but his eyes burned.
"Not for greed!" His voice cracked, and tears sprang to his eyes. "We're starving too! We steal 'cause there's nothing! No food! No bread! If we don't, we die!"
His words hung in the air like a blade.
Elara's hair twitched, hungry, curling around the boy like it longed to pierce him, to drink him dry. The people saw it, and terror thickened. Some began to bow, murmuring that the boy's fate was sealed. Others begged her not to kill a child.
The boy squeezed his eyes shut, voice breaking into a plea.
"If you're going to kill me, then kill me! But don't curse the others! Don't curse my brothers and sisters! They didn't choose this!"
He sobbed, shoulders shaking, but still his head lifted enough to meet her gaze with raw desperation. "We only steal 'cause the world forgot us."
The hunger surged in her chest. She could almost taste the boy's blood — thin, weak, but alive. Her hair strained forward, but she clenched her fists, forcing it back.
She looked down at him. At his bones pressing against his skin. At the fire in his eyes despite his weakness.
And then she spoke.
"Stand."
The boy blinked, stunned.
Her voice hardened, carrying to the crowd. "I will not kill a starving child. But neither will I let you hide among these people, waiting to steal from them again."
The hair loosened, retracting, dropping him fully onto the stone. He crumpled, coughing, but scrambled to kneel.
Elara's eyes glinted black and white, her voice cold but commanding.
"Go. Bring your people here."
The crowd erupted in confusion.
"She spares him?"
"She commands him?"
"Mercy…?"
Whispers spread like wildfire. Some looked on in awe, others in unease. Was this savior, or tyrant? Monster, or queen?
Count Varrow's daughter stared openly, her lips parted. His son clutched his sleeve tighter, whispering, "Father… he's just my age."
The count's face was unreadable, but his eyes studied Elara with new weight, as if reassessing who — and what — she truly was.
Elara glanced at them, at the frail children who stood beside their father in fine but ill-fitting clothes. They were thin, pale from hunger, their nobility little more than a fragile shell.
And then she looked back at the boy, ragged and starving, but with that same fire.
In him, she saw no thief — only another child who might have been them, had fate placed him under different walls.
Her voice rang out once more, sharp and final.
"Bring them here. All of them. No more hiding in the shadows. No more starving in the dark. If you want food, you will come before me."
The boy's eyes widened, disbelief mingling with fear. Slowly, he nodded, tears streaking his dirt-stained cheeks.
"Yes, my lady."
He stumbled to his feet, wobbling, then darted off into the crowd, swallowed by the sea of bodies.
The courtyard was hushed, the people stunned. They had expected death. Instead, they had witnessed something else — not gentleness, not cruelty, but command.
And Elara stood above them, her hair curling faintly at her sides, her hand throbbing beneath the bandages. Her heart still pounded with hunger, but her will had won.
The people bowed, murmurs rising into a chant.
"Savior, Savior."
And yet, in their whispers lay fear as well — for they had seen how easily her hair had chosen prey.